


Our Life Is Not A Movie (Or Maybe)

by atrata



Category: Veronica Mars - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Violence, wallsex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-06
Updated: 2008-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atrata/pseuds/atrata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever she's up to, he's pretty sure it's a fucking stupid idea that's going to end up with her in mortal danger and him looking like an idiot. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Life Is Not A Movie (Or Maybe)

"You're fucking kidding me." Don is pissed.

"Sorry, Sheriff," Sacks says, but Don is pretty sure he's just saying it so he has something to say. "How do you want to play it?"

He wants to ignore it, is what he wants to do, because Don Lamb, Sheriff of Neptune, doesn't give a fuck about prostitution rings. He has actual crimes to solve, but now there's a story in the paper about hookers and strip clubs and fleeced 09ers, and he's going to be expected to do something about it.

*

  
He changes into civvies and goes to The Seventh Veil to investigate. He knows it's not going to do much good: He's not exactly a regular there, but he's close enough to one that people know him, and it's not like anyone's going to try selling him any sex. Really, he's hoping that the combination of the article in the paper and the sheriff putting in an appearance will make the prostitution thing disappear.

He plans to go in, look around, have some drinks, buy a lap dance or three, and go the hell home.

It's an unexpected bonus that he can, apparently, buy the lap dance from Veronica Mars.

*

  
He sees her the second he walks in. She's perched on some suit-wearing asshole's lap, laughing like she means it, wearing black stripper shoes and a bunch of shiny plastic clothes. He doesn't know what the hell she thinks she's doing, and maybe he doesn't hate her, but he's definitely sick of her shit. Whatever she's up to, he's pretty sure it's a fucking stupid idea that's going to end up with her in mortal danger and him looking like an idiot. Again. He's also pretty sure it involves this prostitution thing, and if Mars is involved it usually means there's something to be involved _with_, and that means he's going to have to do actual work.

Later.

In the meantime, he heads for what he thinks of as the Lap Dance Room -- which is stupid, because you can get dances anywhere you want, but whatever. He tells a waitress on his way that he wants to try the new girl, points at Mars, and then sits down to wait.

It doesn't take long before he starts to worry that the room isn't private enough. It's lined with high-walled booths, big enough for two people (three if they're friendly), but that's not the issue; the issue is the area in the center, filled with tables, perfect for anyone who wants to wander in and watch the show. He doesn't know what this particular show is going to look like, but he sure as shit doesn't want anyone else watching. He heads over to the bouncer stationed at the doorway, slips him a fifty to keep out the other customers. The guy hesitates, but it's a slow night, and Don holds up his hands and promises to keep them to himself. The bouncer pockets the cash.

Don grabs a chair from one of the tables and drags it to the corner booth, where he sits, props his feet up, sticks a piece of gum in his mouth, and waits.

*

  
Mars takes her sweet time showing up, and when she finally saunters over, Don almost chokes on his gum. Her stripper shoes have eight-inch heels on them, and when the _fuck_ did she learn to walk on those? She makes a pretty picture in her thigh-highs, though, even topped by the trashy plastic miniskirt and tacky glittered tube top.

When she plants one of those eight-inch heels on the chair he's using as a footrest, Don can tell she's nervous. She's already trying too hard, making too much of an effort to flash him some trim, paying too much attention to how far she has to lean over to give him a view of her tits.

He looks. They're nice tits.

"Hey there," she says, in a voice he doesn't recognize.

"Hey," he says with a grin. The booth is backlit, and he can tell she hasn't recognized him, but she's definitely trying. He knows he needs to pick his moments with Mars, though, and so he keeps his face in the shadows.

She bends at the waist and leans over him, practically shoving her tits in his face. His eyes close as he inhales. She smells good, but strippers always do. "Hey," she says again, whispering in his ear, hot breath scraping his skin. "I'm Misty, and if it's okay with you, I need to move that chair." She curls a hand around the back of his neck, and he knows she's trying to get him to look at her. "Your song's about to start."

He doesn't say anything as he lifts his legs and kicks the chair out of the way. It almost sends Mars sprawling into his lap, and he digs his fingertips into the booth to keep himself from catching her. She catches herself pretty nicely, though, swinging her leg over his and sliding onto his lap like it's where she wanted to be all along. She doesn't even snap at him the way she probably wants to. He spreads his legs a little wider, leans back in the booth, puts on his best shit-eating grin, and looks her in the face.

She freezes, does a great deer-in-the-headlights, and Don is careful not to react. He has no idea if she's going to go through with this, but Don's had a shitty day, and playing with Mars, seeing that panicked look on her face, makes it all better. The look only lasts a second, if that, and then she manages to school her face back into some semblance of fucked-up stripper professionalism.

"Well, _Misty_," he says, glancing up at a speaker in the corner of the room. "Song's started. I wouldn't want to have to tell your boss you ripped me off." He smacks his gum and smiles.

Her back stiffens and that familiar fire catches behind her eyes. She smiles back, and Don can tell she's going to play. She trails a finger down his jaw, her nail dragging a little too roughly against his five-o'clock-shadow, and starts to dance.

*

  
Mars is pissed. Don's enjoying himself. He hasn't moved an inch, didn't ask for another dance, but they're three songs in and Mars is down to her shoes and her thong and okay, Don is _really_ enjoying himself. She's straddling him, grinding down against his hard-on, rubbing her tits all over his chest. She's probably hoping she's irresistible, hoping he'll grab himself a handful and get his ass thrown out. He's the sheriff, though, and he'll have to grab a lot more than a handful before they kick him out. Still, he might do it, because god knows it's tempting -- but not yet.

She twists her hips again, rakes her nails across his jaw, and leans in close to whisper, "What's the matter, Deputy? I know you want to fuck me." She grinds against his dick to prove her point. "I'm only 17, but I know you don't mind."

She sounds triumphant, like that should be something that stings, but he doesn't know what the hell she's talking about. He goes for the obvious lie instead. "Oh, Misty," he says, snapping his gum and keeping his voice bland, "don't lie to me. You've gotta be at least 18 to work here." He shifts slightly, sits up a little straighter, rocks his hips up into hers. Her breath hitches.

"Lucky for you," she says, soft and sweet, running her hands down his chest. "But I'm sure you wouldn't get in trouble. The Sheriff's department doesn't investigate rape, statutory or otherwise." Don's a little fuzzy on the logic of dry-humping him in a strip club, asking him to fuck her, and then calling it rape, but whatever. He knows she hates him, but it doesn't stop her from grinding a little harder on his cock and saying, "So how 'bout it, Deputy? I know you wanna."

He grins, briefly, and decides he's had enough. He moves fast, wrapping an arm around her, and grabs a handful of hair. He pulls, not too hard, but hard enough to force her head back, and then slides his other hand down the column of her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach, under her thong. The thong's soaked through, and he stops there, his fingers hovering just over her clit, so close he can feel the heat pouring off her.

She sits in his lap, stiff and shaking, and he hopes she's pissed, because scared is not something that looks good on her. He's not trying to scare her, except that he is, because she has no business being here.

"Oh, I'll fuck you," he says, pulling her closer and breathing into her ear. "Even if you are a disease-ridden pain in my ass. But not until you ask me for it." He pauses, debating, because he's still on this side of the line -- barely -- but fuck it. He licks behind her jawbone.

She goes stiff in his arms, digs her nails into his shoulders. "I will _never_ ask you for anything," she hisses, hot breath stuttering over his neck. "It's not like you're capable of--"

"Mmm, yeah," he cuts in, not bothered. He knows what she thinks. He knows what everybody thinks. He doesn't care; they're wrong. He goes back to the scaring-her-not-scaring-her part of his fucking-her-not-fucking-her plan. "You'll say, 'please, _Sheriff_ Lamb, fuck me.'" He bites a line down her jaw. He can feel her grinding her teeth. "And then," he says, "and then, maybe, if you mean it, and _if_ you haven't pissed me off in, I don't know, the last 24 hours? _Maybe_ then I'll give you what you want." He pulls on her hair a little more, forcing her to arch into him, and he licks at the hollow of her collarbone. Her skin's soft. She tastes good.

"You son of a bitch," she says, "I don't waaaah--" He still has a hand between her legs, and he moves it, tapping twice on her clit and then leaving his fingers there, just a hint of pressure. Veronica's whole body convulses and she grinds against his fingers, arches against his chest, and it's not an orgasm but it'd be only too easy to give her one. Their eyes lock, and he can see she knows it. "Fuck," she says, and she's shaking in his arms.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and glances over her shoulder to see the bouncer heading their way. Laughing, he shoves her into the chair and stands up with his hands in the air. The bouncer gives him the evil eye, but backs off, doesn't try to kill him or throw him out, so Don can only assume the guy didn't see very much.

He digs out his wallet and throws a wad of cash at Mars, who's sitting on the chair. The effort it's taking her to be calm is obvious, but he can't tell if she's angrier than she is horny, or vice versa. He watches her for a few more seconds and then reaches down and deliberately adjusts his jeans. "Be seeing you, _Misty_," he says, and walks away.

He expects one of those shoes to fly at his head, but nothing happens.

*

  
He has Sacks bring her into the station the next day, and he spends a while smirking at her across the interrogation table while she tries really hard to pretend last night never happened. He has to admit she does a pretty good job.

"You look better without your clothes on, Mars," he says, letting his eyes linger.

She arches an eyebrow. "And looking good without clothes on is a crime now, Deputy, or were you just hoping for a repeat performance?"

"Sheriff," he says automatically, smiling with one side of his mouth. "And if I want a repeat performance, Mars, I know how to get one." She actually shifts a little in her seat, and he grins before adopting a serious expression. "So. What were you doing at the Veil last night?"

"Getting pawed by greasy old men." She gives an exaggerated shudder.

He looks around the room, wide-eyed. "I hope you're not talking about me, Mars," he says, standing up and leaning over the table. "Because I didn't hear any complaints."

Her mouth tightens and she crosses her arms, and he decides to stop fucking around. "Tell me what you were doing there." He sits back down.

"Dancing."

"Mars. I--"

"What were _you_ doing there, Deputy? Was that your idea of an investigation?"

He just stares at her, chewing his gum. She sits back in her chair and shoots him an icy smile. "What, you think if you stare at me long enough, I'll crack under the pressure?"

He keeps staring. "You think I won't throw you in a holding cell?"

"Oooh, will you? Can I try cell A this time? I'm getting bored with the view from cell B."

God, he fucking hates her sometimes. He can't make her tell him anything, and they both know it. "All right," he says. "We'll do this your way. What do you want?"

She looks around. "Excuse me?"

He sighs. He shouldn't have brought her in here. "You're working some case, and I'm guessing it has to do with this." He slides a newspaper across the table. "Tell me what you know, and maybe I can help you out."

She stares at him for a full ten seconds, and then she laughs and laughs and laughs.

"All right, Deputy," she says, when she's finished laughing at him, which takes a really long time. "That was a good one. Just for that, maybe I'll help _you_ out."

"Gee, thanks."

"You only get one shot at this, so you might want to pay attention." She pauses and shoots him a sugary smile. "A friend of mine dances there on weekends to pay her way through school. She and some of the other girls were hired by Robert Friedrich for a private party, strictly dancing, no big deal. So she goes, and it's fine, and she leaves a few grand richer."

"Okay," he says, to show that he's listening.

"But then the owner of the club gets a call that my friend ripped Friedrich off, and suddenly there's a story about prostitution, and she doesn't know anything about any of it. She hired me as a pre-emptive strike. She was worried that Friedrich would call you and you'd arrest her, along with all the other girls at the party."

This, he thinks, might actually be good news. "So there's no prostitution ring?"

She snaps her fingers. "Keep up. That's what I'm trying to find out. If he really got ripped off, and if so, who did it and why my friend got blamed."

"Well, I'm sure the citizens of Neptune will sleep easier with Girl Detective on the job."

She doesn't respond, but he knows it was a pretty weak jab. "Are we done?" she asks.

"Who's your friend?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential."

"You're not a lawyer, Mars," he says, grinding his teeth. "Or even a legitimate detective. You don't get confidentiality."

"Hmm," she says, nodding seriously. "I think that also means I don't have to talk to you at all."

He wants to strangle her. Mostly, though, he just wants her to go the hell away, so he smiles his least-sincere smile. "That's true, because Friedrich never reported any robbery," he tells her, and he's not really sure what that means for the bigger picture. "So I won't be arresting your friend until he does."

She looks at him for a minute, either like she doesn't believe him or like she thinks he's a moron -- or probably both -- and then shakes her head. "Great. Thanks so much. Can I go now?"

She doesn't wait for him to answer before she stands up and breezes out of there.

*

  
He skips a night, gives himself a much-needed evening off from dealing with or thinking about Veronica Mars, and then he goes back to the Veil. She's there, working the room like a pro in her naughty schoolgirl clothes: plaid skirt that's not long enough to cover her ass cheeks, collared shirt that laces up the front and has no shoulders. It's a pretty terrible outfit, actually, and Don wears a lot of brown polyester and so he knows about terrible outfits, but he figures hers probably comes off easy.

He watches her for a few minutes before sitting down at a corner booth and ordering a drink. He stays there for hours, closes the place down, and buys dances from damn near every stripper in the place who isn't Mars. He ignores her completely, in fact, even though he can feel her eyes on him the whole time.

*

  
The doorbell rings just as he's falling asleep, and he stumbles out of bed and into a pair of boxers as he's on his way to the intercom. He checks the clock and figures anyone showing up at the sheriff's apartment at three-thirty in the morning has a damn good reason. He hits the buzzer without bothering to see who it is.

There's a knock at his door a few seconds later, and when he opens it, it's Mars. She's clearly come straight from the club, is still wearing that schoolgirl getup, is covered in glitter and makeup, and Don isn't sure what to think.

He doesn't move out of the doorway. He doesn't know what the hell she wants or why the fuck she's standing at his door in her slut suit or what she thinks is going to happen. He tries to keep the confusion off his face, covers it by looking at her, by taking his time checking out her bare thighs and her tiny waist, the way that skirt hugs her hipbones, the way her tits strain against her too-small shirt.

He starts to get hard, and she's staring at his chest, at his rising cock, and that's only making him harder. Her tongue darts out, wets her lips.

"Yeah?" he says, shooting for somewhere between bored and amused. He usually pulls that one off pretty well. She shakes her head slightly, as if to clear it, and looks at his face.

Her smile is blinding, gorgeous, and not even a little convincing. "Please, _Sheriff_ Lamb," she says, using that faux-breathless she'd adopted at the Veil. "Fuck me."

He doesn't laugh. Instead, he lets her stand there for a few seconds before he slams the door in her face.

*

  
Thirty seconds go by, and he spends them looking around his apartment, making sure all the blinds are closed and that there aren't any assholes with telephoto lenses trying to set him up. He wouldn't put it past her, and he looks even though it's not like he's going to be able to see any assholes-in-waiting. Still, he's pretty sure they won't be able to see him, either.

There's another sharp knock at his door. He sighs and yanks it open again, but before he can ask Mars what the hell she wants this time, she slaps him across the face. She's wearing a ring, and it hurts, and that is quite the fuck enough.

He's pretty sure he's growling when he shoots an arm out and grabs a handful of hair to yank her inside. The breath rushes out of her lungs as he shoves her against the door and closes his mouth over hers. He tastes coffee, and then she bites and he bites back and there's blood and bile and bitterness between them. It doesn't stop her from wrapping her arms around his neck, though, and when he slides his hands down to her ass to pick her up, her legs lock tight around his waist.

He presses her body against the wall, pinning her with his chest, and reaches one hand below and between her legs. Her skirt's not in his way, and soon her thong isn't, either; he pushes it aside and slides his fingers against her slit. She's already wet and he almost comments on it, almost sinks his teeth into her skin and asks her what she's dripping for. Instead he just slides two fingers in, feels her flesh part easily, feels her dig her nails into his shoulders and her heels into his back.

That's good enough for him, and he fucks her with the fingers of one hand and fumbles for his jacket with the other. It's easier than it should be; she doesn't weigh anything at all and she's wrapped so tight around his body that their skin all feels the same, all slick sweat sliding together as he searches through the pockets of his jacket for a condom. He's got a box in the bedroom, but fuck that. Anyway, pay-dirt.

"Hold on," he says, hiking her up a little higher and pulling his fingers away. She whimpers and he kisses her again, swallows the sounds she's making, and he doesn't know if he's ever been with someone so much smaller than he is, but he's liking it so far. He keeps her pinned to the wall, tries to concentrate on something other than the feel of her tits against his chest, her thighs trembling against his hips, her heat pooling against his stomach. He manages to reach underneath her and open the condom, get his dick out and the condom on, and then he pushes her thong out of the way and lifts her by her hips.

"Say it again," he says, positioning himself against her, where he can feel the heat radiating off her. The second the word "please" comes out of her mouth, he buries himself inside her in one smooth motion. She throws her head back and cries out, an almost hurt animal sound, and goes still in his arms. He leans back a little and waits, lays a line of kisses down her neck. He probably shouldn't have done that, probably should have gone a little slower, given her more of a chance to get used to him, but it's too late now. She feels amazing, quivering around him, and this is maybe the only situation in which he's going to exercise any patience. He's content to enjoy it, to enjoy sex in general and sex with Veronica Mars pinned against his wall in particular, and he rocks against her, giving her a few seconds to get used to the way he feels inside her. _He_ could certainly get used to it; her cunt is tiny like the rest of her, holding him tight, and he thinks he could do this forever.

She shivers with her whole body and then makes some kind of agitated movement with her shoulders, and so he grabs her hips and bends his knees and proceeds to fuck her through the wall.

*

  
"Stop," she pants, and he doesn't hear her the first time and doesn't believe her the second, because she's seconds away from coming and they both know it. She claws at his shoulders, and he wonders if he's hurting her. "Stop," she says again, her voice a little more firm, even if she is still pumping her hips and clutching his back. He's not hurting her. "Seriously, Lamb. Don. Stop." It's the use of his first name that convinces him she means it.

A very large part of him says to just keep going, that they're both almost there, that she came to him, that this is clearly a part of some fucked-up game she's playing. But, well. Maybe, if she weren't Veronica Mars, maybe he'd listen to that voice, he'd keep going, he'd get them both off and make no apologies later. But he won't be that guy, not for her, not even if -- _especially_ if -- she wants him to be. So he slows down, stops, shudders, pulls out, practically drops her on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He trashes the condom and is opening the fridge when he hears the door slam. He looks into the living room, and Mars is gone.

*

  
A week passes before he sees her again, and this time, she appears in his office like some nightmare stage magician.

"I thought maybe you'd want to try something new," she says, throwing a file on his desk. "Arrest some actual criminals. There is a prostitution ring."

"Actual criminals, huh?" he says, raising an eyebrow and flipping briefly through the file. It's been just under two weeks and he has more or less fucked Veronica Mars, but his world hasn't changed so much that he suddenly likes busting up prostitution rings. He smacks his gum and drops the file on his desk. "Swell," he says, an insincere smile on his face. "I'll look into it."

She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath like she's about to bitch him out for not doing his job, but instead she says, "Not a lot of guys would have stopped." Her voice is quiet.

Don snorts, and before he's thought about it, he says, "Yeah, well, if that's your idea of rape, Mars, it's no wonder you're always crying wolf."

Her body jerks like he's just punched her in the stomach. Shocked, painful surprise registers on her face, but it's gone so quickly he's not actually sure it was ever there in the first place.

"I was _drugged_," she says, her voice tight and ringing with fury. "If you-- Never mind." She stands to leave, and he's blocking the door before he really registers he's moved.

"Mars," he says, but she won't look at him. "Veronica."

"Get out of my way, Deputy."

"No. Jesus Christ, Veronica, I didn't mean--"

"What? You didn't mean _what_?"

He runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck it," he mutters. "Whatever."

"No, I don't think so," she says, still furious. "Let's talk about our _feelings_. You started this whole thing, and just when I thought maybe you weren't a complete waste of space, you go and accuse me of--"

"Of what?" he snaps. "Of playing games? Gee, Veronica, I don't know how I would _ever_ have gotten that impression. You show up, ask me to fuck you, and freak out when I do."

"That's not what was supposed to happen!" she yells, and Don doesn't really know what the fuck is going on. He knows he should have kept his mouth shut, but he doesn't quite understand why she's shocked that he doesn't trust her. He never has before, so it's not exactly new. He hooks his thumbs in his belt, but stays in front of the door.

"Really. And what was supposed to happen?"

That seems to take the wind out of her sails, somehow, and she looks down, takes a deep breath, gets herself under control. "It wasn't supposed to go that far."

"Oh," he says. "I see," even though he doesn't. "And that's not a game... how, exactly?"

"I didn't say it wasn't a game," she snaps.

"And you're pissed that it didn't go exactly the way you wanted it to. Jesus, what are you, twelve?" He rolls his eyes and gives her the most patronizing smile he can manage. "Get the hell out of here, Mars. Go home to your daddy." He moves out of the way and sits down in his chair, picking up the file she'd left for him and propping his feet up on the desk. He doesn't look up when the door slams behind her.

*

  
Two nights later, he goes to The Seventh Veil, and when the bartender tells him that "Misty" just quit, he goes out back and dials her number. He has no idea why, really, or what the hell he's going to say if she picks up, but he'll think of something.

It rings, and he hears the theme from "COPS." He grins despite himself and then realizes it's coming from the dumpster down the alley. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and he wishes for his gun. He left it in the cruiser, but he makes his way slowly down the alley anyway, keeping his eyes open for movement. The theme song's still playing when he peers into the dumpster and shoves some trash bags out of the way, and then he sees a flash of blonde hair and pale skin.

He stares for a few seconds too long and then he's over the side, hip-deep in trash, digging her out and swearing under his breath the whole time.

*

  
It's not like she's heavy, so he gets her out of the dumpster with no problem and then slides to the ground, cradling her to his chest. She's alive. Don kind of wants to kill her. She's covered with cuts and bruises and she won't wake up, but she's breathing and her pulse is steady. He slaps her cheek lightly. "Mars," he says. "Veronica, come on, wake up."

He should call the paramedics. He should take her to the hospital. He should do anything other than sit there in a dirty alley with an unconscious girl and yell at her, but that's pretty much what he does. Amazingly, it works. Her eyes flutter open an eternity later, and she looks at him, confused and hurt.

His mouth opens and closes a few times, and he realizes he has no idea what to say. Asking her if she's all right is stupid; she's clearly not. Asking her what happened is pointless; she's not going to tell him. Telling her she's an idiot is out of the question; he can tell her that any time, and it's not like it's going to help if he does it now.

She saves him from having to figure it out by asking, "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Howdy, Mars," he says, plastering a bored smile on his face. "I'm rescuing you. You want to tell me how you ended up beat to shit and thrown out with the trash?"

Her mouth tightens.

"Didn't think so," he says. "All right. Come on."

"What? No. I'm not going anywhere with _you_."

"I'm not giving you a choice, Mars."

"Are you seriously arresting me? For getting beat up and thrown in a dumpster?"

He rolls his eyes and stands up, still carrying her. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm doing."

The sarcasm, for once, goes right over her head, and she starts struggling to get away. She shoves at his chest and tries to kick him, but she's tired and hurt and tiny, and he has no problem manhandling her into the cruiser. He shoves her into the passenger seat and leans in close. "Are you going to make me cuff you?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

He smacks his gum and smiles slow. "You know it."

"Bite me, Deputy."

He shuts the door, gets in the car, and starts driving. She curls up in her seat, shaking slightly, and he doesn't know if it's anger or fear or shock or what.

She finally looks over at him. "Aren't you going to read me my rights?"

"Shut up, Veronica. I'm not arresting you."

"Oh, so you're kidnapping me. Awesome job, _Sheriff_." She gives him a thumbs-up. Her hand shakes.

"Veronica. Shut up."

"I don't believe you," she says, her voice hard. "I hand you everything on a silver platter and you _still_ manage to screw it up. And somehow you're taking it out on _me_, like you're pissed off that I got beaten up, when it was _your_ fault in the first place."

He looks over at her. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I think you need to go see the Wizard, Lamb," she says, her voice mocking. "Ask him for a clue. Who do you think beat me up? Hmmm." She puts a finger over her lips. "Let me see. You think it might have been the vindictive ring leader you completely failed to arrest?"

"For fuck's sake, Mars," he snaps. "Get over yourself. You are not god's gift to crime-fighting. I know you don't understand things like procedure or due process, but you can't just march into my office with a stack of illegally obtained evidence and expect me to arrest everyone you point at. That isn't how it works, and I've been telling you that for _years_. Your _father_ has been telling you that for years. And if you would fucking listen to someone for once in your goddamn life, you wouldn't need people to drag you out of dumpsters. Now shut the fuck up or I'm dropping you off on this street corner without your phone and you can walk your ass home." He's yelling by the end of it, his hands are white on the steering wheel, and he desperately wants a drink.

She, naturally, does not shut the fuck up. She yells right back. "Well, if you would do your job and actually _investigate crimes_ instead of staring at yourself in the mirror all day, maybe I wouldn't have to run all over the place digging up evidence to help you out. You--"

"Help me out? You were trying to _help me out_? Tell me, Veronica, in what POSSIBLE way does it _help me out_ for you to run around digging up crappy, inadmissible evidence that holy shit, there are women out there who fuck for money? Then, what, you probably marched in there, all high-and-mighty and full of self-righteous bullshit and did one of your big reveals so everyone could see how smart you are, only you fucked it up and got your ass handed to you. Thanks a ton, Mars. Where should I send the gift basket?"

They are, thank god, in the parking lot of his apartment complex. "Get the hell out of the car," he snarls, throwing it in park and getting out. He's halfway to the front door and about to hit the lock on the remote when he realizes she isn't behind him.

He stops, sticks another piece of gum in his mouth, takes a deep breath, and walks back to the car. He pulls open the passenger door and drops to his haunches. She's struggling with her seat-belt.

"Need help?" he asks, and he means to be nice, but it comes out through his anger and doesn't sound nice at all.

She freezes and doesn't look at him.

"Veronica, seriously, let me help you get out."

"Fuck. You," she says, and her voice is not loud or steady or angry. It's young and small and miserable. He leans over to look at her, and she's staring very intently at the gearshift, tears streaming down her face. She closes her eyes and trembles.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "She cries," he says to himself, because he's surprised, because he's seen her holding a gun on Aaron Echolls, cool as you please, and whatever happened tonight can't possibly compare. He doesn't say it loudly, but a sob wrenches its way out of her throat, sounds like it tears something, and her whole body shakes. She shoves a fist in her mouth and bites down.

He has no idea what to do. He goes for honesty. "Veronica," he says, his voice low and as sincere as he can make it. "I don't know what to do."

Her eyes fly open and she stares at him, still fighting back the sobs. He reaches for her but she jerks back, and he pulls his hand back to his knee. "Just leave me alone," she says, her voice ragged. "Please. Just leave me. The fuck. Alone."

He nods, closes and locks the car, and goes inside.

*

  
Once he's inside, he takes a quick shower and sits by the window with a beer. He has a view of his cruiser, and he stares at it, at her small form inside it, and drinks for what seems like a very long time.

*

  
However much he drinks, it's not enough to get her out of his head, and he stumbles downstairs a few hours later to check on her. She's asleep in the back seat, curled up under his jacket, and he shakes his head. He's not sure he wants to analyze that one: she can't get out, and he's the only one able to get in, and he doesn't know how to feel about that. He figured she'd call someone to come get her and take her the fuck away from him, but no. She's apparently still his problem. He opens the back door as quietly as he can, slides his arms around her, and carries her inside. She sighs, stirs, but doesn't wake up.

Once he's inside, though, he's not sure what to do with her. He can't just put her to bed. She's been in a dumpster, for fuck's sake, and she smells bad and she's covered with cuts and bruises and needs to get cleaned up. He sighs and lays her down on the couch. Yeah, this is going to go _really_ well.

He changes into swim trunks and latex gloves and then strips her down, throwing all her clothes into a trash bag. He doesn't want to keep it around, really, but they might need it as evidence later. Contaminated evidence he stripped off the victim himself, but whatever.

Once her clothes are off, he takes a minute to check out her wounds, now that it's not dark and they're not in the alley and he's not worried she's about to die. She's badly bruised, but nothing is broken, and none of the cuts need stitches. Looks like she was worked over with a blunt instrument of some kind. His jaw clenches, and he swallows the bile that rises in his throat.

He picks her up and carries her into the bathroom, setting her in the tub and sliding in behind her. She still doesn't wake up, and part of him can only think, _thank god_, because it's five in the morning and he can't handle another shouting match. Another part of him is worried, though, and he keeps stopping to check her pulse and listen to her breathe and make sure she's okay.

It takes a long time. She's a mess, and she's hard to maneuver, and he's trying to be careful. But when he finishes, she doesn't smell like trash and her injuries don't actually look too bad and maybe he's going to get out of this before she kills him. Maybe, but he's not very optimistic.

Quickly, he rinses them off in the shower and then carries her into the bedroom, where he towels her off and tucks her into bed. She sighs and snuggles under the blankets. She looks young and terrible and beautiful, pale bruised skin against his navy blue sheets, and fuck it. There's going to be shouting in the morning anyway, and so he dries himself off, takes off the swim trunks and slides into bed next to her.

*

  
"Lamb."

He rolls over and stretches. Mars is sitting up at the far edge of the bed, the comforter wrapped around her, hugging her knees to her chest. Oh, right. Wonderful.

"Give me a minute," he says, and rolls out of bed and pulls on some boxers before she can say anything else. He doesn't know if it's rude, but he looked at the clock and he's gotten maybe two hours of crappy sleep, if that, and there's no way he's doing this without coffee. He doesn't really want to do this at all, is not really interested in her fucked-up games this morning, but there's no way she's giving him a choice. So he puts on a pot of coffee, brushes his teeth, and comes back to the bedroom with two cups. He puts one on the night-stand next to her and gets in bed, leans back against the headboard. "Okay," he says, and takes a sip of coffee. "Go."

"How did I get here?" Her voice is flat, accusatory.

"Define 'here,'" he says.

"_Here_." She gestures expansively. "Your apartment. Your bed."

He pulls a face like he has to think about this one. "Well, let's see. After the whole beaten-up and thrown-away thing, you passed out in the car. I brought you inside. Put you to bed."

"Naked." She's still talking in that weird, flat tone, and her eyes are glittering dangerously. He thinks she's probably angrier than he's ever seen her, and he gets it, and he doesn't, and he should have just dumped her on Keith's doorstep.

"One more time," he says, speaking slowly. "I found you beaten up and in a dumpster." He knows he's entirely failing to keep the condescension out of his voice. "You needed to be cleaned up."

"Yeah, because heaven forbid I get your sheets dirty."

He nods seriously and takes a sip of coffee. "Well, they _are_ 800 thread-count Egyptian cotton. But -- and I learned this one in sheriff school -- open wounds and garbage aren't really a match made in heaven."

"Ooooh, I get it. You were looking out for me. Thanks!" She pauses. "How was it?"

He puts down his coffee carefully and looks at her. "How was what?"

"Please," she says, and she's gritting her teeth so hard Don is amazed she can talk at all. "You had me naked and unconscious in the shower. Don't tell me--"

"Yeah," he says, so sharply that it startles them both. "And I also had you on my cock and begging for it. Remember that? I say some stupid shit sometimes, Veronica, but that doesn't mean you have to start." He keeps his voice cold and level. "Fuck you and your implications."

She flinches and looks away. He's got her there, and they both know it.

"Fine," she says, never cowed for long. "So is that what you want? Me, on your cock and begging for it? Am I supposed to be grateful for all your help? I never asked for any of it."

"Jesus, Mars." That logic is so fucked up that he doesn't know what else to say. "No."

"Then what do you want?"

"Nothing." It's a lie, and they both know it, but he doesn't actually know the truth. That answer's as good as any.

"Why didn't you just leave me alone when I asked you?"

"Oh, you mean, why didn't I leave you unconscious in the alley? Why didn't I dump your ass on a corner and make you walk home?"

"Why did you bring me _here_?"

"Because I'm an idiot," he mutters.

"Can't argue with that," she says.

"Fine. Where do you want to go?"

She looks at him like he's a very stupid child. "Go? I can't go anywhere like this. My dad will flip out and Wallace is in Chicago with his bio-dad and Logan and I broke up and since Wallace is gone, Piz is--"

"'Piz'? Whatever, I don't need the soap opera," he says. "Just tell me where you want me to take you."

"Hey, I have an idea," she says, dripping sarcasm. "Maybe, when you ask me a question, you could try listening to the answer!" Her smile is brittle. "I can't go anywhere. You broke me, you bought me." She holds out her hands, palms up.

"You can't stay here," he says, somewhere between shocked and horrified. "We'll kill each other."

"Hey, I never wanted to come here in the first place."

"Uh, Mars, if you can't go anywhere _now_, why could you have gone somewhere when I found you?"

"Uh, Lamb," she says, and her voice sounds kind of creepily like his, "if you had taken me home or to the hospital right away, it would have been fine. But now I have to somehow account for the time between you finding me and my showing up, and that's not going to happen. Unless you'd like to call my father and tell him you found me unconscious in an alley behind a strip club and instead of doing anything remotely sheriff-like, you took me to your apartment and got me naked?"

He frowns.

"Yeah," she says with a nasty laugh. "That's what I thought."

He drops his head back against the headboard. "Fuck."

*

  
Don calls the office and tells Sacks he's not coming in; he's got some stuff to take care of at home. He likes being the sheriff.

Mars calls her father, says she's staying with Mac. She calls Mac and tells her she's staying with Logan, but not to tell Keith if he asks because she doesn't want to get into it with him. She calls Echolls and tells him not to say anything to anyone. She calls Navarro and asks him to get her car from the club and stash it somewhere on campus. She calls three classmates and one TA and says there's been a "family emergency" and she won't be in class and please e-mail her the lecture notes. She calls her friend at The Seventh Veil and warns her about the dancer responsible for her current predicament. She calls Vinnie Van Lowe and gives him a tip about some frat guy she knows he's been looking into. She makes, Don counts, 17 phone calls, and he thinks two of them might have been true.

"What?" she says, when she catches him staring. He just shakes his head.

He drives her to her place to pack a bag. She packs clothes and books and electronics and toiletries and food and Don is pretty sure she is going to be the roommate from hell. He tries not to talk to her more than absolutely necessary, which seems just fine with her. She sits in the passenger seat of his car, quiet for the first time Don can really remember.

He carries her bags inside.

*

  
"What are you doing?"

He throws his shirt in the hamper and glances over his shoulder. She's in her pajamas, in his bed, and she was probably reading until a few minutes ago. She's been hiding in the bedroom all day doing whatever the hell she does -- sleeping, reading, spinning weird webs of lies for no reason Don can figure out -- and that was fine with him.

"Going to bed," he says, and strips out of his jeans. "Sleep on the couch if you don't like it." He refuses to change his habits because she insists on making her life more complicated than it has to be. He hesitates, and then the boxers come off, too. Fuck her.

He slides into bed, sets the alarm, and turns off the light. He won't let her exile him to the edge of the bed -- it's a king-size and she's tiny and it's _his bed_, dammit -- but he rolls on his side and gives her his back.

"I was reading," she says, a few seconds later.

"Eat more carrots," he tells her, and she slams her book shut but doesn't get out of the bed. It's a long time before Don falls asleep.

*

  
She's pretending to sleep when he gets up in the morning and gets ready. He lets her pretend. He likes his space, and doesn't really like that she's in it, and has zero desire to exchange early-morning fake pleasantries. It's too weird.

She calls him and tells him she wants a key to his place. He can tell by her tone of voice that she's turned over every inch of his apartment looking for a spare. It makes him glad he never got one made.

She calls him and tells him to stop at the grocery store on his way home, because she's a growing girl and can't live on beer and carrot sticks and frozen pizza. He says she can take his car and go when he gets home. _He_ can live on beer and carrot sticks and frozen pizza just fine.

She calls him and tells him he needs to go to the Mars Investigations office and pick up some files, because she's got cases she needs to work. He tells her there's no way in hell, and he means she shouldn't be working cases, but he knows she just thinks he's refusing to be her errand boy. Well. That, too.

She calls him and he snaps at her to stop fucking calling him so he can get some work done, and he hangs up before she can make some snide comment about how that would be a new experience for him.

She calls him and he doesn't answer the phone.

*

  
When he gets home, Mars has set up her command center on his couch, and she's surrounded by electronics and books and files.

"Sure," he says, closing the door behind him. "Make yourself at home."

"Don't mind if I do."

He drops his duffel bag in the entryway, takes off his jacket, and sprawls in the armchair. Just because he knows it'll piss her off, he props his feet up on the coffee table, on top of a pile of her papers.

"So," he says, chewing his gum. "I need your statement."

She gives him a moderately lethal 'drop-dead' look. He smiles sweetly.

"I'm not pressing charges."

"Oh, let me guess," he says, raising his eyebrows. "You don't remember anything?"

She shoots him her best not-amused smile. "Since when are you interested in arresting criminals?"

"Since when are _you_ interested in letting them walk?"

"You should be able to get enough on her without this," she says, gesturing vaguely at herself. "If you were remotely competent, anyway. But if I press charges, we'll both have to testify, and my father will definitely find out."

"And?"

"_And_ I think he'll kill you."

He chews his gum thoughtfully, staring at her. He's pretty sure there's something else going on, because Keith Mars thinks his daughter's shit smells like roses. If she bothered explaining anything to him, Keith would be fine. Or, hell, she could make something up, because it's not like she never does _that_. He also doesn't buy that Veronica is worried about his safety. He would've thought she'd be _trying_ to get him killed.

"What?" She sounds pissed that he's staring at her.

He smiles. "I'm waiting for you to say something that isn't total bullshit."

She stands up and stalks into the kitchen. "This isn't an interrogation," she calls out.

He sighs and follows her, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb and crossing his arms. "It could be. You _are_ impeding my investigation."

Her jaw drops a little as she pours a glass of water. "You wouldn't."

He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow.

"You totally would," she mutters, slamming her glass down on the counter and turning to face him. "Are you even investigating anything, or do you just get off on making my life difficult?"

He gives her a slow smile and doesn't bother to hide it as he takes a good, long look at her. She's got a cut across her forehead and a small one on her left cheekbone, but she looks otherwise fine. More than fine, actually, in her ass-hugging jeans and chest-hugging sweater. He shoves off the doorjamb and moves closer. "You want to know what gets me off, Mars?"

"Hmm." Her body tenses, but she doesn't back down or move away. "Barely Legal Girls Gone Wild and your left hand?"

He smirks. "I'm right-handed."

She shakes her head, a parody of sadness. "Kids these days. No versatility."

He moves closer and very deliberately puts his hands on the counter, one on either side of her, trapping her there. Their bodies are so close that he can feel her breathing, but he doesn't touch her. Instead he bends his head and whispers, "You want versatility, Mars? All you've gotta do is ask."

"Do you even know what 'versatility' means?" She shoves him, but she either isn't very strong or isn't trying very hard. He doesn't move, and her hands go still on his chest.

"Wanna find out?" He turns his head slightly, buries his nose in the hair at the nape of her neck. She smells... like him, actually, like she used his soap and his shampoo, which is weird, because he watched her pack her own and he knows it's in his shower. He starts to get hard and he bites the back of her neck gently, grinning when he hears her suck in a ragged breath.

"Desperately," she says, but she slides forward and down and scoots sideways under his arm. He lets her take a step or two before he reaches out and grabs her arm. She whirls around to face him, wincing, eyes darkening. She looks at his hand. Shit. He drops her arm and steps back, his hands in the air.

"Forgot," he mutters, because no matter how many times he sees her beaten down, the only image of Veronica Mars that sticks in his head is the one where she's a stone-cold hard-boiled bitch. He'd almost entirely forgotten that her body is covered with bruises under all those clothes.

But instead of flouncing off to the living room, or slapping him across the face, or ripping him a new one, or anything else he expected her to do, she just stands there frozen in his kitchen, staring at him. She's breathing heavily, and her eyes are dark and a little wild.

She licks her lips. "I." Color rises on her cheeks and she swallows. Don raises his eyebrows. This, whatever the hell it is, just got _really_ interesting.

"Yeah?"

She takes a tentative step forward, eyes locked on his. She looks at her arm, and she's got this strange puzzled expression on her face. "Do that again." She lifts her arm, holds it out.

His eyebrows climb a little higher, and his hand closes around her wrist. Her other hand wraps around his and squeezes, and she sucks in her breath. Her eyes flutter shut. This is the most fucked-up not-sex Don has had in a while. He has no idea what the hell is going on.

Not that Veronica seems to know, either. She's opened her eyes and is staring at their hands on her wrist, weirdly transfixed, and then she lets go of his hand and shakes her head a few times. "Okay," she says. "Let go."

Don chews his gum and doesn't let go. Instead, he decides to experiment. He squeezes. She gasps.

They stand there for a few seconds, chests heaving, eyes locked, and Don doesn't know who moves first, but suddenly her tongue is in his mouth and there's biting and there's blood, and she's clawing at him like she wants to crawl inside his skin. He lets go of her wrist and slides his hands under her sweater, digs his fingertips into the spaces between her ribs, into the notches of her spine, and it's probably hurting her but she doesn't seem to care. She presses her body closer to his, gets his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, gets his belt undone.

It's not desire pooling at the base of his spine; that would be too easy. This is need, dark and dangerous and heavy, blistering his skin and driving him out of his mind. He feels her nails catching on his skin, digging in deep, and he grabs her wrist again, hard, and her gasp sucks all the breath from his lungs. He twists, wrenches her arm behind her back and turns her around, shoves her into the counter.

The shove is hard, because everything about this is hard, and he wonders if he really does hate her, because the noises she makes when she's hurting are making him harder. Her hipbones crash into the granite of the countertop and he feels the impact in his own body, shudders as she cries out. She uses her free hand to unbutton her jeans and shove them to her knees as she arches her back and sticks her ass out. Don is going to kill her if she's fucking with him again.

"This what you want, Mars?" He asks, using his other hand to free his dick. He presses it against the small of her back, where her sweater's riding up and her jeans are shoved down and he can see the bruises marring her skin and so he presses a little harder. He bends his head, bites down into her neck, lays another bruise into her skin, and jerks her arm a little higher.

"Yeah," she gasps, trying to push her body backward into his, struggling, but not trying to get away. He steps back, one hand stroking his cock, and uses the leverage he's got on her arm to force her to her knees. He drops to his own knees behind her, pushes her jeans down a little farther, and then lets go of her arm. He moves his hand to the base of her neck and shoves forward, hard and fast, and her head cracks loudly against the floor. He winces slightly, but she just pushes back against him, her ass against his cock, and he's buried inside her before he's completely aware of what's going on.

His blood is pounding through him, roaring through his ears, and he hears a groan and isn't sure which one of them it came from. It stops being hard and starts being easy, fucking her like this, even if his knees are screaming. Her cunt is wet and grasping and tight, like it was made for him, and she's whimpering and moaning and shoving back against him, taking it and taking it and wanting more. He grabs a handful of hair, yanks her back and up, and it looks painful but it only makes her wetter. He digs his fingers into the bruises on her hips and slams into her, over and over again until his vision's going gray and he's not sure he's going to live through this.

She comes with a harsh cry, without Don ever even touching her clit, and she digs her heels awkwardly into his ass and tries to keep him close. He stills for a few moments, riding out her orgasm, shuddering behind her as her cunt spasms around him, and then he tightens his grip on her hair and starts all over again. Her body is limp against his, but she's still trying, still urging him on with "faster" and "harder" and "more," and when he comes, he's pretty sure it's the end of the world.

*

  
"Holy shit," she says, collapsing in a sweaty, boneless heap on the floor, breathing hard. He pulls away and sits down, back against one of the cupboards.

"Yeah," he says, looking down at his dick, which very definitely does not have a condom on it. "Yeah."

She rolls over onto her back and throws an arm over her eyes, but not before he sees a red welt on her forehead where it hit the floor. There are new bruises on her neck, on her wrist, on her hips.

She's lying bruised and battered and beaten on his kitchen floor, and maybe he hates her, but this is too much. He stands up, staggers into the bathroom, and dry heaves into the toilet.

*

  
He's leaning over the sink, splashing cold water on his face, and looking in the mirror. He's still in uniform, for fuck's sake. Jesus.

The door opens, and Mars slides inside the bathroom. She fixed her clothes and she's got her arms wrapped tight around her middle.

"Hey," she says.

He stares at her in the mirror and thinks he might be sick again. "You should go home."

"I can't."

"Yeah," he says, and splashes more water on his face. "You keep saying that. A hundred more times, and maybe I'll buy it."

"What's wrong with you?"

He turns on her, opens his mouth to yell, to say... he doesn't even know what, but she doesn't flinch, is just looking up at him with uncertainty and something else that isn't hate and isn't bitterness and isn't pain and he can't handle this. He snaps his mouth shut and takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. He reaches for something that is mostly honest. "I forgot the condom."

"I'm on the pill," she tells him, but her eyes narrow like she knows that's not what's wrong. "But seriously, what's up?"

He shakes his head and wipes his face with a towel. "You're super-detective. You tell me. But until you figure it out, leave me the hell alone."

He walks out of the bathroom, out of the apartment, and drives to the nearest bar, where he proceeds to drown himself in bourbon.

*

  
He wakes up on his couch, with no real memory of how he got there. His head is pounding, his mouth is full of cotton, and Veronica Mars is curled up on the armchair, sleeping. He groans and stumbles to the bathroom. He takes a piss, takes a shower, dresses quickly, and gets the fuck out of there.

That's his plan, anyway, but Mars is blocking the door, fucking things up.

"Can we talk about this?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

She raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms. "That's not how I remember it."

"Yeah, well, your memory isn't so great," he snarls, and that almost does it, is almost enough to make her leave him alone, but no. Her face closes off, a mask of anger, but she keeps talking.

"You threw up and then got so drunk the bartender had to call Sacks to bring you home."

That stops him. "Sacks brought me home? He knows you're here?" Shit.

She rolls her eyes. "Of course not. Give me _some_ credit."

"Fine," he says. "Good work. Now get out of the way."

"Tell me what happened."

"You're a lousy lay, Mars. Now, move. I'm late."

She sighs, obviously frustrated and disbelieving. "You know I'm just going to find out. Might as well tell me what it is. My time is valuable, and you don't really want me digging."

He clenches his hands into fists. "Like you're not going to dig anyway. _Move_."

She steps out of the way and he goes to work, where he proceeds to be a first-rate asshole to as many people as he possibly can. Fortunately, he's the sheriff, and so that's a lot of people. He very pointedly does not think about Veronica Mars, about her laying battered on his kitchen floor, about her cry of pain as he... no. He lifts a lot of weights and yells at a lot of people and does paperwork till midnight.

*

  
When he gets home, Mars is on the couch, flipping through a file. He ignores her and goes straight to the bedroom to get the hell out of his uniform. But Miss Persistence follows him in there and watches him from the edge of the bed. Once he's got his jeans and t-shirt on, he sits down next to her and doesn't say anything.

"I dug," she says after a while.

"I figured." He props his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor.

"I don't like you."

"You had to dig to figure that out?"

"Shut up for like thirty seconds and let me say this. I don't like you. You're cruel and petty and arrogant and not very good at your job." He glances sideways. She's sitting just like he is, staring intently at the floor.

"Thanks."

"Seriously, shut up. I... well. You're not your father, Lamb. What--"

"Stop," he says. "I don't care what you think you found, Mars, you don't know shit about my father. We are not having this conversation. This thing with us? Is not happening again."

He leaves without looking at her and grabs a beer from the fridge before settling on the couch to watch TV. There's an SVU rerun on USA, and he stares at it, not really watching. Mars comes out of the bedroom a few minutes later, gets a beer for herself like she wants him to call her on it, and then sits on the couch next to him. She doesn't say anything, just watches TV and drinks, and when she falls asleep, her head is resting on his shoulder. He carries her to bed and curls up next to her.

*

  
He wakes up as he's sliding into her, and he opens his eyes to see her riding him, her head thrown back, hands on his shoulders, mouth slightly open. He reaches up and trails his hand down the column of her throat, rubs his thumb over one of her nipples, traces the hollows of her bones, the dark bruises on her skin. He doesn't press. She's so beautiful it hurts, and he closes his eyes against it. He brings his hands to rest on her thighs, thrusts up into her tight heat, and loses track of himself completely. His orgasm, when it comes, feels ripped out of him, is so intense it borders on pain, and he puts a thumb on her clit and drags her over the edge with him.

They fall asleep tangled together like they do this all the time. They're still like that when the alarm goes off in the morning, and he turns the damn thing off as quickly as he can. Veronica is sprawled across his chest, and he trails his fingers lightly over the bruises on her back. A few of the nastier ones are still mottled purple and red, but most of them are that ugly greenish yellow that means they'll be gone in a few more days.

He sighs and wonders, for the millionth time, what the hell is going on. Sure, he's thought about fucking her, thought about bending her over his desk and making her scream, thought about putting that smart mouth to good use. But his jerk-off fantasies never included waking up with her naked in his bed, never included whatever the fuck had happened the other night, never included these weird head-games they've been playing, and they sure as hell never included her stirring up his long-buried daddy issues. He's the sheriff, dammit, and he doesn't _have_ daddy issues. Even so, his life is complicated enough without any of this shit, and he really should've known that getting involved with Veronica Mars wasn't going to be simple. Keith is going to murder him, and Don is totally going to thank him for it.

Even so, he's painfully hard. She feels good against him, soft and sleepy and warm, her body fitting against his in all the right places. "Mars," he says, running a hand through her hair and tucking it behind her ear. "Come on, Mars, I need to get up. Some of us have jobs."

She stretches against him, her legs sliding over his, her tits pressing into his chest, and he didn't think it was possible for him to get harder, but the slow slide of warm skin against his does the job. "Mmmm," she says, and she's fucking _purring_, and she brings a thigh up to rest against his balls. "What's the hurry?" She reaches for his dick, and he clamps his hand on her wrist. She sucks in a breath and grinds against his hips.

When he rolls them over and pins her to the bed, she smiles sleepily and arches up into him. He looks at her for a few seconds and then, very deliberately, he fucks everything up.

"Mars, what did I say last night?"

She rolls her hips against him, against his erection, and he bites the inside of his cheek. She shoots him a mischievous smile and flutters her eyelids. "That it wouldn't happen again," she says, like she's trying to be coy.

"Yeah," he says. He lowers his voice and bends his head to whisper in her ear. "Tell me, Veronica. D'you know what it's called when someone says they don't want to fuck you, and then you fuck them anyway?"

She goes rigid. He doesn't shut up. "I'm thinking about having you arrested, but I have it on good authority that the sheriff's department doesn't investigate rape allegations."

He rolls off the bed and walks to the bathroom without looking at her. She's gone when he gets out of the shower, all her stuff has been cleared out, and he can almost tell himself that she was never there.

*

  
Time passes, though Don isn't really sure how much. His days all bleed together in a haze of paperwork and petty crime. He lifts weights. He goes out for drinks with the guys. He plays some pool. He arrests some frat boys. He wonders if he's ever going to see Veronica again.

*

  
He does, of course, because she can't leave anything well enough alone. A few weeks go by, and he comes back from lunch one day to find her in his office. She's lounging in the chair in the corner, her feet hanging over the side, reading a magazine. She's wearing a t-shirt, and there's no sign of the bruises that were so evident a few weeks earlier.

"I thought I asked to be told when some girl was in my office," he says loudly, to no one in particular. He slams the door a little harder than necessary, hooks his thumbs in his belt, and stands over her.

"Well?"

She smiles up at him angelically. "Got some information I thought you might be interested in," she says.

He sighs but takes the file when she hands it to him. There's something in her eyes he doesn't like, but he's not up to analyzing her right now, and so he sits down at his desk, flips the file open, and freezes. His stomach clenches into a hard knot, and the breath rushes out of his lungs.

When he thinks he can speak, he says, "What the hell is this?" He's pissed as hell, but he keeps his voice soft.

"I thought you'd recognize it." He glances up at her. Her magazine lies forgotten on the floor and she's watching him curiously, almost nervously. "It's--"

"I know what it is," he grinds out. "Where the _fuck_ did you get these?" Because they're pictures of himself as a kid, at four and six and ten and fifteen, clinical pictures taken at hospitals and police stations, pictures of bruises and scrapes and broken bones.

She stands up and comes around to his side of the desk, leans against it. He can feel her leg against his, but he doesn't look at her. Instead, he stares at a picture of himself at fifteen, just before he left home. He's got a black eye and his jaw is wired shut and he hasn't been that kid in a long time, had almost managed to bury that kid, and fuck Mars for dragging it all back into the open.

"Get out," he snarls, but instead of moving, she slides another piece of paper over the picture he's staring at. It's an autopsy report. No, it's _his father's_ autopsy report, and the man's been dead to Don for so long that it never occurred to him he might _actually_ be dead. He didn't want to know. He left all that behind. He clenches his fist and takes a deep breath before he steels himself and gives Mars the blandest look he can manage.

"Great, Mars. Thanks for the intel. Now get the hell out."

"But--"

"But what?"

She heaves a frustrated sigh. "I just thought you'd want to know," she mutters. She looks confused, and maybe a little hurt, but fuck her anyway. "I'll leave."

"You do that," he says, a false smile plastered on his face.

As soon as she's gone, he runs the pictures and the autopsy report through the shredder.

*

  
"Any messages?" Don's back from lunch and bored. It's been a slow week, and he's sure it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that a certain blonde hasn't been around sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.

"Actually," Sacks says, "yeah."

Don waits and then raises his eyebrows. "Is it a _secret_ message? I think it's okay to tell me. I'm the sheriff."

Sacks shuffles some papers and hands him a file. "Jane Doe in the morgue. ME needs you to sign the report."

Don sighs. More paperwork wasn't really what he'd been hoping for when he'd asked for messages, but whatever. Goes with the job. He digs the form he needs out of a filing cabinet, and takes it all back to his office, intending to give the papers a cursory once-over before signing the report and sending it on its way. But there's something about the autopsy photo, something about the ME's description, and something in this situation is very, very wrong.

He walks down to the morgue and asks to see the body. The medical examiner looks a little surprised; Don doesn't come down here that often, and never for Jane Does. But he doesn't give Don any shit, just pulls the drawer out and folds back the sheet, and Don is staring at the beaten and bloated body of Lianne Mars.

*

  
It's a dick move, and he knows it, but he calls Veronica.

"Deputy!" She sounds cheerful. "Miss me?"

"Yeah," he says. He uses his bedroom voice. "In fact, I was hoping you could come by the station later today."

"Mmm," she says. "That sounds promising. Got another crime you can't solve?"

"Something like that."

"I'm done at two, and then I'll rush right over."

"I can't wait."

She wasn't lying; she shows up at two-fifteen with that fake sunny smile and edge of wariness she always has when she's dealing with him. He doesn't say anything to her, just jerks his head to indicate she should follow him.

"Trying to get me alone?"

He looks at her, and maybe he has the stomach to do this, but he can't quite bring himself to joke about it now. He puts as much warning in his eyes as he can, gives a small shake of his head, and doesn't say anything. That, miraculously, shuts her up.

They get to the morgue, surprising the ME again, but Don ignores him. Veronica is looking at him with curiosity all over her face, but he ignores her, too. He walks to the drawer Lianne is in, slides it open, and folds back the sheet.

Veronica goes rigid and pale. Her mouth drops open, clamps shut. She takes a step forward, raises a hand slowly, drops it, takes a step back. Don feels a little sick.

"Need you to ID the body," he says. His voice doesn't sound quite right.

Her mouth opens a little, and she wets her lips, swallows hard. When she speaks, though, her voice is cold and clear and hard. "It's Lianne Mars," she says. She swallows again. "Is there anything else?"

He thinks about it, kind of wants to say something nasty, rub it in, but he's pretty much filled his asshole quota for the week, so he just shakes his head. "No."

She turns and leaves, her footsteps echoing on the linoleum, and the ME is looking at Don like he's the biggest asshole on the planet. Don goes back to his office to fill out the necessary paperwork.

He doesn't feel any better.

*

  
Keith Mars storms into his office a few hours later, slamming the door so hard it almost comes off its hinges.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?!"

Don tries to keep his cool, or at least look like he's keeping his cool. He adopts his keeping-cool posture: leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk, hands laced behind his head. He chews his gum and doesn't bother playing dumb. "You're divorced," he says, like it matters. "Veronica is next-of-kin."

Don is pretty sure that Keith wants to kill him. There's pure, cold fury in his voice, and Don doesn't really blame him. "You got a grudge against me, you deal with _me_, you hear?" He leans over the desk, jabs two fingers in Don's direction. "If you _ever_ pull a stunt like this again, I will destroy you."

It's not an idle threat, Don knows, but he smacks his gum and smiles blandly. "Thanks for coming by, Keith. I'll keep that in mind."

*

  
A week later, he arrests Vivian Chamberlain, the stripper who beat up Veronica. The charges are slightly trumped-up, but only slightly, and he makes them stick. It's possible he's helped by the less-than-robust defense McCormack mounts once Don happens to spill what Chamberlain did to Veronica. Veronica comes to the trial, sits in the back, and their eyes meet when the guilty verdict is handed down.

He spends the next month carefully piecing together the details of Lianne's murder. He figures Veronica is probably trying to do the same, and he's hell-bent on cracking the case before she does. So he gets serious about security at the station -- legitimately serious, this time -- and does most of the work himself, takes the reports and files and notes home with him at night.

Then he arrests Liam Fitzpatrick. These charges aren't trumped-up at all; Lianne had owed Fitzpatrick money and he'd decided she'd never be able to pay. The fact that her last name was Mars didn't help her chances any, and he'd beaten her to death and dumped her body in the ocean. But Lianne hadn't been married to Keith Mars for nothing, and there was enough of a paper trail that it was pretty easy to trace everything back to Fitzpatrick. The deputies round up some of Fitzpatrick's cronies, and it's only a matter of hours before they've got enough to charge him with 17 different felonies.

Once the confession is signed and sealed, Don goes looking for Veronica. He finds her staking out the Camelot, car mostly hidden by a grove of trees, and he doesn't knock on the window before he opens the door of her Saturn. He throws her shit in the back, not really caring if she needs it for whatever the hell she's doing, and slides into the passenger seat.

"Howdy, Sheriff," she says, but she sounds tired and doesn't look at him. "What brings you out of the weight room?"

"I arrested Liam Fitzpatrick a few hours ago."

"Wow. Arresting a known criminal. What _will_ you think of next?"

He ignores her sarcasm. "For murdering your mother."

That gets her attention. Her head jerks up and she stares at him, and there's enough light in the car from the moon and from her various illegal electronic gadgets that he can see the shock written plainly over her face. "For... what? My mother?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Figured you'd be on the case."

She looks away, but not before he sees the ironic smile flash across her face. "No," she says, her voice quiet. "I... I'd let her go."

"Weird," he says. The Veronica Mars he knows never lets anything go.

She shrugs, and he watches her and wonders what the hell it is about her that makes him reach for the things that hurt, makes him want to throw every mistake in her face, even when the mistakes are his. When he says, "Oh, I get it. You'd already buried her," he manages to sound a little sympathetic.

"Yeah."

"But, Mars, I was only trying to help." He puts his hands over his heart and spits her words back out at her. "I thought you'd want to know."

Her voice lashes out as her head snaps up. "I get it, okay? You didn't want to know about your father. Fine. What the hell do you want from me?" Her eyes burn at him, and he didn't know the answer the last time she asked him that question. Now, suddenly, he does: This. He wants her, like this, burning them both alive, and it's such a punch in the gut that he almost laughs. He is so, so fucked.

He's afraid he might smile at the absurdity of the whole thing, so he looks out the window. He wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea. Eventually he says, "She owed him money." He hadn't actually come here to fight with her, even if it is the solid ground, and he _really_ hadn't come here to have revelations about the fucked-up nature of the universe as it relates to and revolves around Veronica Mars. So he goes back to the case. "Not the best idea. And he's got a grudge against your family, so that didn't help. Once he found out who she was... well. He wasn't really inclined to extend her any credit."

She's quiet for a minute, and he wonders if he's fucked it up again. But then she says, "I didn't even know she was in Neptune," and Don knows he's got a pass.

He shrugs one shoulder. "Hadn't been back long. Six weeks or so. She was staying down in the industrial district."

"Are the charges going to stick?"

He turns his head to meet her eyes. "Yeah," he says, a little surprised by the conviction in his own voice. "I've got him cold."

Her smile is sweet, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "As cold as you had Abel Koontz?"

"Colder than your daddy had Jake Kane," he says, with a smile that matches her own.

The smile falls off her face. "Leave my father out of this."

"Hey, you're the one who sicced him on me. He practically kicked my door in. And after you spent so much time telling me how worried you were for my safety." He shakes his head sadly, and then puts a hand on her thigh. It lands just above her knee, slides up slowly. "I thought we had a connection, Mars. Something special."

She pats the back of his hand and mimics his tone perfectly. "You really shouldn't try thinking, Deputy. You're going to hurt yourself." The only thing he can see in her eyes is mockery, but he can feel the tremors shooting through her quads, and she doesn't move to pull away.

Yeah. Yeah, he is well and truly fucked.

He slides his hand up and around to her inner thigh. He feels her tense, and they both freeze for a few seconds while he watches Veronica watch his hand on her thigh. He doesn't know if he's pushed her too hard, and he's not sure how much he cares, but then she sighs and his chest loosens with something that feels like relief.

Her head falls back against the seat and her legs fall open, and he takes the opportunity to twist his wrist, press the heel of his hand against the seam of her jeans, and push. She gasps, closing her eyes, and her hips lift off the seat to grind against his hand. He smiles slightly, surprised by how easy this is. She's responsive under his hands, there's heat pouring through her jeans, and he presses a little harder.

"Veronica," he says, turning just a little in his seat. "Veronica, look at me." He wants her to be aware of who's doing this, of the fact that it's _his_ hand between her legs, wants her to go into this with her eyes open and no weird delusions about what's going on. He's getting hard under his uniform, and he doesn't really want to stop.

It takes her a minute, but eventually her eyes flutter open. They're clouded over with lust and bitterness and distrust, and he's pretty sure he even sees a challenge in there somewhere. He'd kiss her if they were the kind of people who kissed. Instead, he switches hands, putting his right hand between her legs and cupping her chin with his left. He runs his thumb over her bottom lip and she draws it into her mouth, her teeth scraping against the pad before she sucks it deep inside. Her eyes stay locked on his, and he takes a deep breath.

All right, then.

She reaches for him, slowly, her hand heading in the general direction of his dick, but he grabs her wrist before it gets there. He lays her hand over her own belt and raises his eyebrows, grinning slightly. She rolls her eyes but unbuckles her belt, opens her jeans.

A smirk slides across his face as he dips his hand inside, runs his fingers through her damp curls, slides them over hot, wet flesh. "Wow, Mars," he says, pulling his thumb out of her mouth and rubbing it over her bottom lip again. "I'm beginning to think you like me." He rubs a finger up and down her slit before sliding it inside. "I barely touch you, and you're dripping for it."

It's not so dark that he misses the color spreading across her cheeks, and he almost tells her to chill the fuck out. It's not like he _minds_. But the impulse to take her down a peg or two wins out, and he crooks his finger. She whimpers, and her eyes close briefly. When they open again, they're mostly angry, and when she reaches for his dick this time, he lets her find it. He's only half-hard; he hadn't come here for this, after all, and he's not a teenager. He likes to think he has _some_ control.

She falters when she touches him, like she's disappointed that he's not fully hard, but her hands on him only make him harder, and she throws his smirk right back at him. "I think you like me too, Deputy."

He laughs, low in his throat, and thumbs her clit. "Parts of you," he says, sliding another finger inside and fucking her slowly. "And it's 'Sheriff.'" She's tight, even around his fingers, but she opens easily, and Don has to bite back a groan.

"Whatever," she grinds out, her body shuddering on his fingers. "You started this."

He watches her for a while, bathed in moonlight, writhing against the seat, pinned by his eyes and his hands. Her skin is flushed and hot, her eyes are a little wild, and she can't seem to stop moving. Her tits press against her t-shirt as she arches her back and pumps her hips, trying to get his fingers as deep inside her as they can go. "Yeah," he says. He's had enough. He's not going to finger her in the front seat of her car like he's sixteen. "And now I'm gonna finish it."

He pulls his hand out of her pants and taps her lips with his fingers. "Lick," he says, and she hesitates, but then she sucks his fingers into her mouth and licks them clean, her eyes fluttering closed as she does it. Don almost groans as her tongue swirls over his fingers, and when she starts sucking, he feels it in his cock.

He shifts in his seat, getting uncomfortable as he gets harder, and then he pulls his hand out of her mouth and gets out of the car. He hears an angry noise behind him as the door slams, but he just circles around to her side, opens her door, and jerks her out by her arm. He winds her hair around his fist, shoves her up against the side of the car, and crushes her lips to his. _Now_ they're the kind of people who kiss, now that they're mostly fucking.

It's different, now, less careful, all teeth and tongue, some kind of weird struggle, but whatever it is, he's going to win. He pins her against the side of her car, and she's wet and willing and waiting when his hand slides back down her pants. He hears a groan as her arms wrap around his neck, and he's not sure which one of them made the noise.

She presses her body closer to his, wraps one leg around him, and he slides his other hand down to cup her ass. "Sheriff," she gasps out, and somehow it goes straight to his cock. "We should be. Not here." Her hands tug his shirt out of his pants and slide underneath it, nails scraping against his skin, tendrils of heat curling down his spine. He shudders, pulls back, looks around. They're mostly hidden, but still in the middle of the street, and if there's one thing that's going to cost him his job, it's fucking Veronica Mars against the hood of her car in view of god and everyone and Keith Mars.

"Yeah," he says, and as often as he's thought about fucking her in the back of his cruiser, they're 100 yards from a perfectly serviceable shitty motel. He glances at the sign and almost makes the suggestion, but something stops him. He doesn't really want to fuck her in the Camelot. She's spent her life thinking the shit that goes down in that place is wrong, and this thing with them is maybe not _right_, but he's not going to give her the extra excuse if he can help it. The cruiser it is.

"Yeah," he says again, and moves both his hands so he's cupping her ass. "Up." He gives one cheek a little slap and she jumps, locking her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He's still not over how small she is, how little she weighs in his arms, and it's no problem at all to carry her to the cruiser and slide into the back seat. She licks at his neck the whole time, small rough tongue lapping at his pulse point, and he's actually pretty pleased with himself for not getting so distracted that he trips or drops her or just fucks her right there by the side of the road.

Once he settles them into the back seat, she tries grinding down against him, but he rolls her off his lap and reaches for his belt. "Take your pants off," he says, and she fucking does it, pulls them off so fast he almost laughs, but he opens his fly instead and frees his cock. She reaches for the door but he grabs her arm and pulls her back onto his lap instead, feels her thighs sliding against his, and he leans in and bites at her earlobe. "Close that door, Mars, and you'll have to call your daddy to get us out of here."

She grimaces. "Well, Deputy, it would--"

"Shut up and take a ride," he says, pressing his mouth to hers to keep her from talking, almost giddy with his newfound ability to shut her up. He lifts her hips up and then guides her down on top of him, almost shaking with the effort of holding himself still, buried deep inside her. She's so tight around him that he has no idea where he even begins, and he doesn't know when he started thinking weird shit like that during sex, but he can feel her heart beating between his legs, can feel every breath she takes as her cunt quivers around him.

"Fuck," he says, and he wants to say more. He wants to talk, to put his lips to her skin and let loose with the stream of vulgarities on the tip of his tongue. He's never quiet during sex, because the dirty talk is the second-best part of the whole thing, but with Veronica, he bites his fucking tongue. He'll say the wrong thing and she'll take it the wrong way and he'll never have her under his hands again. And that, he decides, as he guides her up and down his cock, groaning into her mouth, really doesn't work for him.

She picks up the pace, strangled-sounding whimpers escaping from her throat, and he has to brace his feet against the seat in front of him to keep steady. He feels her nails on his skin, her teeth in his shoulder, and he pulls her shirt off over her head so he can get at her breasts. He bends her backwards and she cries out as his mouth closes over a nipple, and he suddenly wishes he'd decided to go to the Camelot, because he wants fuck her till they both pass out.

He thrusts up into her, losing everything but the slick slide of her flesh against his, the taste of her sweat on his tongue, the sounds coming from her throat. He doesn't know if it goes on for minutes or hours, but it's not nearly long enough before she cries out and goes rigid in his arms, her cunt spasming around him as she comes. He follows her over the edge like a fucking teenager, shuddering and emptying himself inside her.

When it's over, he drops his head back against the seat, sucking as much air into his lungs as he can. Veronica is limp in his arms, resting her head against his chest, and yeah, they really should have gone to the hotel. He slides a hand over her back and has no idea what to say. He feels himself softening inside her and sliding out, and then she pulls away and reaches for her clothes.

"Wait," he says, grabbing her and pulling her back down on his lap. "I'm not done with you."

She raises an eyebrow and looks down, eyeing his limp cock. "You look pretty done to me, Deputy."

He smiles slowly and then leans in and licks her collarbone. "You have no idea, Mars," he says, and she shivers against him.

"Okay," she says, finally, and he lets her go. She climbs off him again and starts to get dressed.

It's awkward. They straighten their clothes in silence, and he's not sure how this is supposed to work. It's not like they're going to cuddle or say cutesy shit, and he doesn't know if he's expected to walk her back to her own car. Probably not. He does it anyway.

"You know where I live, Mars," he says, leaning against her door once she's back in the car. He thinks he might even mean it metaphorically.

She looks at him for a long time, like she's not sure what to say, and the part of him that thinks she's such a pain in the ass is pretty glad she's quiet. Then she smiles, and that sarcastic, wary mask slides back into place. "Is that an invitation?"

He grins. "You _are_ one hot piece of ass."

She rolls her eyes and sounds disgusted when she says, "Whereas you're just an ass."

He stands up and digs in his pocket for a piece of gum. He wants to tell her he's serious, that she should come over when she's finished, that he really isn't done with her, but he doesn't. Instead, he shrugs, turns, and heads to the cruiser. He can feel her eyes burning through him as he walks away, but he has a policy about not looking back, and he doesn't do it now.

 

**FIN**


End file.
